Live Together Die Together
by chromeknickers
Summary: No longer was his world about academic laureates and Nobel prizes. It was about keeping us all alive, covering our tracks before dawn and burrowing down. And it was my job to keep Sheldon's ass alive. - VERY AU and dark.


_Warning: Rated NC-17 for swearing and sexual situations. Additionally, this is something that you should not read if you have religious sensibilities. There is no religion bashing, but the voice in this piece is very angry with God. Read at your own discretion. _

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**Live Together, Die Together**

He saw it coming before anyone else did, but it wasn't the Apocalypse that he had been expecting. He didn't believe in Revelations – in the seals and in the horsemen, and in the almighty wrath of God. But he was prepared. You could always count on him to be prepared.

His beliefs were his own – not Christian nor religious. He placed his faith in science. His beliefs were powerful, but they scared the hell out of me, almost as much as the Bible. I didn't understand them then, and I'm not quite sure if I understand or believe in them now, but I respected them like I respected him. And there was always the chance that he was right. Who knows? He was always right before this clusterfuck tore through our city and many others across the continent, so the smug bastard was probably right on this, too.

Personally, I didn't care. My mind was only fixed on one thing: staying alive. With him, I knew I stood a chance. With him, I knew our whole fucking world stood a chance. So it became _my_ job to protect him, to keep the genius safe. Because without him, our society, our civilisation, our species as a race of _human beings _would not survive. We'd be torn apart by demons and hellhounds or whatever the fuck else God had unleashed upon us.

_He_ gave us a fighting chance. Sheldon did, not that glorious fucking Bastard on high, who had promised us our Saviour. _He_ just gave us the Second Coming. Praise Jesus, hallelujah!

No, Sheldon wasn't Jesus Christ. Fuck that shit! I'd have renounced what little faith was left in me if that were the truth. Christ (swearword withstanding), I'd join the Other Side. But Sheldon was the one who knew where the Messiah was. He knew everything. And he was going to lead our pitiful convoy to Him: to protect Him, to have Him help us rise up against the evil that had descended upon our world.

But everything depended on time and variables and what ifs, and _light_. You see, They only came out at night. Yes, _They_. Sheldon refused to call them demons or fallen angels or whatever the fuck they were, and so did we. We only referred to the Fight – to the _Struggle_ – in terms of Us versus Them; We versus They. And _They_ were stronger than Us – faster, _larger_, and by far more numerous. But they weren't smarter. Thank you God for that – you _Fucking Magnanimous Prick_.

I know what you're thinking: how could I hate God and talk this way about Him when I know that He is real? It's easy: God's a Fucking Asshole with a magnifying glass, and we're the scurrying ants He's lighting on fire. _For fun_.

Sheldon, he didn't get angry about it – about Him. He didn't get angry about much anymore these days after—Well, that doesn't matter. He was too preoccupied. No longer was his world about academic laureates and Nobel prizes. It was about keeping us all alive, covering our tracks before dawn and burrowing down. Tactics. Manoeuvres. Traps. Sentinels. It was his job, as the Prophet, to lead us to the Chosen One. And it was _my_ job to keep Sheldon's ass alive.

I never left his side. Never. Not once. Not even when he was taking a shit. Oh, he protested, _vehemently_, for the first month, but I would not budge. I was stronger and faster than he was, and I was just as hard-headed – if not more. Eventually, I wore him down. We did everything together, including sleeping. In the beginning, it was me on the floor of the moving van or the floor of whatever basement or cave we chanced upon for shelter, while he slept on the makeshift cot. Then, we switched to occupying the same bed, sharing body heat. That way no one could get to him in his sleep. I'd be right there – and I was a light sleeper. We didn't always sleep together. Often, I took sentinel while he slept, not trusting the others. Him, me, them – take your pick on who was the least trusting, who was the most paranoid.

It's not like they would have knifed him or tried to usurp his power. He was feared by the others, definitely more than they feared me. I was still a woman to them, but I was the only one who could control him, the only one who could placate his violent temper. He respected me and confided in me. The others were just regular folk – some believers, some not. Women, children, men – they just wanted to stay alive like the rest of us. But often it felt like Us versus Them – me and Sheldon against our own convoy. Shepards against their own flock. They were not a part of our world.

Our world, though changed, was still rooted in Pasadena with Leonard and Raj and Howard. And although they were still a part of us, we never spoke of them. There was no point in drudging up the painful past. Their deaths – their _violent fucking_ deaths – only fuelled the flame to our fire, bringing us closer together, yet farther apart.

For the first three weeks, we were alone. No friends, no family, no followers – just Sheldon and I. Sheldon would research and plan during the day in our newly acquired and highly sophisticated bomb shelter, while I would gather – gather rations and ammunition and anything else he asked for.

Funny, isn't it, to think that fucking bullets could wound a demon? Sorry – _Them_. They did, although _killing_ Them was an entirely different matter. It wasn't silver or wood or some hokey, superstitious way (hokum, as Sheldon would put it) in which one would kill a vampire or a werewolf. But it was _holy water_ of all the cockimamy things – artefacts sanctified by God (blessed). Yeah, fucking holy water worked. I guess some of the literature was right. Makes you think that He's got quite the fucking sense of humour, doesn't it?

We raided every church in Pasadena, gathering relics and water, and that's when we found O'Leary: a drunken Catholic priest. Fucking irony, right? Yeah, well, maybe not irony in the strictest sense of the word, but it was quite the funny coincidence (even if Sheldon didn't believe in that crap). What did we need to hoard religious artefacts and water anymore when we had a man of the cloth on our side, who could sanctify everything for us? But, as we found out a few weeks later, after O'Leary had his head torn clean off his shoulders, was that it didn't matter what religion you were of – or of what faith – because all it took was a blessing from someone _with faith_. _Real_ faith.

Sheldon and I couldn't do it. Sure, we knew God was real, but we didn't know that _before_ the Apocalypse came. In the end, we had Sally, an orphaned and semi-mute nine year old, bless everything for us. She was our anointed cross in our back pocket. She was protected almost as fiercely as Sheldon. _Almost_. Many children would die before Sheldon would.

It wasn't until we started picking up more people, saving them, that Sheldon and I began to distance ourselves from those same people. Leaders can't become one with those whom they lead. It confuses loyalties, blurs levels of power and authority. We needed to remain mysterious and aloof. So we slept together, apart from the others. On the sixth week, hiding down in Panama off the coast of some pissant village, his hand reached for my inner thigh. Long fingers travelled upward to coarse, curly blonde hair, parting lips. My hand went instinctively to the bulge in his pants, releasing him and gripping his swelling hardness in my palm. I guided him inside, and he began to pump into me, silent grunts in my ear.

We didn't kiss or even look at one another. The act in itself was rough and hard and fast, my own fingers attending to my clit while he viciously thrust into me from behind. It was over almost as fast as it had begun. The moment I came on his cock, he came with me, quickly pulling out to release his seed onto my thigh, soaking the dirty sheets below. There was no way (in Hell) that I was getting pregnant in this fucked up world, and we never did the rhythm method again after that. Yeah, there was an 'after that'. I went on the pill, thankful for all the pharmacies that we had raided on our journey down south.

We fucked every night, still never kissing, never looking at one another. It was too hard. In his eyes, I saw everyone that I had loved and lost, had seen hewed upon unholy talons on the battle field. There was no doubt in my mind that Sheldon saw the same thing in _my_ eyes. Or maybe he saw something else. Fuck if I know or if I'll ever know, but I did know that we didn't fuck out of love or even out of loneliness. It was something that made us feel real, feel human… and _normal_.

And then we were back out on the road – fighting, killing, saving. It was a vicious cycle that didn't seem to ever want to end. And so I waited with him, not bothering to ask _the_ questions: where will we find Him, _how_ will we find Him – when, when, _when_? And what will we do if it's too late? Instead, I just followed him – always at his side, always having his back. We would live together, and we would die together – never alone.

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**Prompt: **Use the opening lyrics from _Life In The Fast Lane_ by the Eagles as your inspiration. As you will be able to tell, I didn't really follow them as expected…

_He was a hard-headed man;  
He was brutally handsome,  
And she was terminally pretty._

_She held him up,  
And he held her for ransom in the heart  
Of the cold, cold city._

_He had a nasty reputation as a cruel dude.  
They said he was ruthless;  
They said he was crude._

_They had one thing in common:  
They were good in bed.  
She'd say, "Faster, faster. The lights are turnin' red."_


End file.
